Words
by Sparrow-of-Chaos
Summary: In a single dedication he told her what he could never say. A story of simple words and what they can do.
1. Chapter One

Author's notes: Something that was itching to get out on paper. My other stories are on hiatus still. 

Cheers to all.

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It was funny, how he always escaped in books or movies. Living different lives for a small moment, getting away from the stress and difficulties of his own was what had kept him sane for so long. 

Adventure novels where the hero always won and got the girl, tragedies where you were crying along with the main character, fantasy where nothing was like it should be, or even science fiction…anything to get away, hide from his reality. Just something that he could hold in his mind, place himself as the character, imagine him being the one who made it, or experienced it. It was a form of escapism.

His ex-therapist had described it as an uncontrollable urge to escape, fuelled by past trauma, she encouraged it with a hint of caution to not alienate himself from those around him in real life. For the most part, he took the advice, socialised, movies were great, he could socialize and escape all at once, same with television. Yet for now, escapism through books was a wonderful drug to him, a small bit of ecstasy to get him through another day of living.

She did it too, but she read for the knowledge to escape permanently, not just the brief moments of escape he craved. Another thing they had in common, yet were on opposite sides about. Both of their rooms lined with pages and pages of printed words, his walls stacked with books comics and video cases, all watched and re-watched and remembered fondly, hers thick textbooks on things that would only ever be understood by her.

'The world is quiet here', was something he had once thought, on his little journey to read in the room. The pages lit by moonlight and a small book light clamped the back side of the hardcover book that rested comfortably in his lap, his legs bent and propping up the book.

The couch was a cosy place to read, his back propped against a pillow, the room was dark, and the appliances gave a low hum but he didn't notice. He was off in a world were a hero got a sword and never messed up. Even the side kick was remarkable with everything, no screw ups or blunders. The book was not well written and did not have the most engaging story line but it was a book and thus begged to be read and consumed, and the boy did just that.

He was dreaming of being that hero that could do no wrong, for once not being laughed at or useless when the door opened. Some vague fuzzy part of his mind responded but he only turned a page, the slight flick of paper loud to everything but him.

Eyes, intent gazed at the words, taking them in, tasting them, weighing them, holding them until they had no life left in them to give to him. It was only then did he release the word and move on a little fuller but never quite enough.

Steps lightly echoed off the cold wall. The owner of the socks that padded lightly across the floor looked for a time at the figure silhouetted by a book light sitting on a couch, turning pages and devouring a novel. Even in the dark, she knew he wore the neon orange pyjamas that he had bought on sale on a rare trip to the mall with her. He was leaning with his back again the armrest, so he could tilt ever so slightly and lean on the back of the couch.

She knew he read a lot, about as much as she did, but now she held the question of how often was he out here, spending all night reading, escaping their world. He could always become so involved in a book, be taken in by the story that she almost wished she could join him. He seemed able to read anything, were as she seemed confined to dark macabre stories filled mainly with death.

Envy of his ability to be sucked into the story only rivalled his ability to read stories where there was not always a morbid, death-filled story line, but something where the protagonist wins and finally makes it for whatever they were fighting. For a few moments she watched him, turn a page, pause as he soaked up the words then turn another page.

In her hands, she held a novel, typed up, and held together by a heavy-duty paper clip. About a thousand pages long it was a bout a man who goes on an amazing search though the world to find one girl he knew in high school, only to lose her in the end to the eternal fear of existence; death.

He had not even noticed her, in blue plaid pyjamas walk up behind and read over his shoulder. The book was not well written and seemed to have a weak plot but he was so into it.

A soft hand touched his shoulder and he jumped. Pulled roughly from the world his mind had been off in.

"Jesus!" He gasped, looking at her with eyes more annoyed with the abrupt snap back to reality that the scare. Fear was something easy to handle after what he went through daily, but it was not often he was caught reading, and never had someone interrupted him.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," she apologised, her voice quiet as always. He looked over his shoulder at her, eyes locked, seemingly shocked to find he was not the only night time wanderer.

"Ninjas make more noise than you." At first, she was taken aback by his statement but then the laughter in his eyes told her he was joking to break the tension. A soft smile crept across his face. Walking around the blue bit of furniture she sat across from him, her legs folded.

For a long while she gazed at his feet and legs, bent and pressed together so he could prop the book against his legs, he looked at her, her skin reflecting the pale glow from the city lights.

"You wrote this didn't you?" She finally said, staring at his feet. Her small hands held out the pile of papers.

He took them noticing the way they had been bent she had read and re-read the book a few times. After looking at the tiny type, he handed them back to her, his own hands returning to their posts at his book. She looked up with a smile, letting him know she was not accusing him of something.

"Yeah…" the word hung there, her eyes lowered again, looking at a ball of lint stuck to his grey socks. The hum of the appliances punctuated everything but mostly the silence seemed to compress time and life itself. He saw her look up at him slowly, her eyes bright with tears. Concern flooded his own and she looked down again.

"I didn't like it…" she murmured. The unexpected critique took him by surprise, but her whole intrusion; while not unwelcome, was a bit of a surprise.

"You didn't?" he would never say it but he was insulted by what she said, he thought it had been his best work yet, out of all the little novels he had written. This was the one he had planned on sending to a publisher.

"I like the story, I loved it. Everything was great…just not the end…." She looked up at him again tears streaming down her face, "he didn't save her." This girl never showed emotion, she was always cold and calculating, yet his story had made her cry. A small sense of pride glowed within him.

"Oh," was all that escaped his lips. One of his hands found their way to her shoulder, which he patted awkwardly yet reassuringly. Her eyes looked up into his, revealing emotion she would normally bury and hide, refuse it any chance to see the light.

"Why did she die? Why did you have to kill her, after all her went through to find her," It was that question you always wanted to ask an author, why they did something or why they kill off a character. Yet he did not know if he could answer he questions..

"It was because of the person I wrote it for…they seem to like those endings…: He tried to explain, hoping she would stop crying. He had hidden the book, and for the life of him could not figure out, how exactly she had found it.

Posture straightening she looked him square in the eyes, the tears stopped and he breathing steady. The book was still held close to her heart.

"Who did you write it for?"

"Someone who is special to me," Nothing to hide behind he spoke with pure honesty, his voice still but a whisper but pressed forward with emotion, "The one girl who seems to understand me, and the one girl I will always understand, even when she doesn't speak, or looks away."

He closed the book he had been reading and got up. With a goodnight, he walked into the dark hall, a smile on his lips, and a blush on his face at what he had revealed.

Looking down at the white papers, she flicked through them and noticed there was a page stuck to the first one that had escaped her notice. Peeling the pages apart, as they were stuck with some dried coffee she saw the dedication.

"This is dedicated to the most beautiful and awe-inspiring girl I know. Who seems to understand everything, including me so well. To my friend, now and always, the one person I will always love," she read in a soft whisper that caught in her throat as she saw her own name.

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Reviews would be most welcome. Any types are accepted. 


	2. Chapter Two

Author's notes: Well this story is completed now...and serves as a reminder why I should be banned from writing stories. 

As a note: Does anyone besides me thing there should a genre called "_Real life_"?

This story is dedicated rather unconventionally to: **beautifulpurpleflame  
**(Even though she doesn't really know me other than the person who writes _REALLY_ long reviews for her stories.)

Her stories are few of the decent ones that shine though the thick, sewage like waste of most of the horrible, uncontrolled, bowel movment equaled stories that appear in horrific and mind-numbing droves on this site.  
So if you actually like reading a well plotted, decently written, gramatically correct, in character, actually proofread and typo corrected story, read her stuff.

Anyways, onto a story that is so sickenly sweet it ruined my teeth, more that the unbelieveably sugary lemonade I just drank did.

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It became their tradition, they would tell each other stories. About anything really, adventures of characters so silly it had milk coming out of noses, or sad stories that made them cry a little, love life just a little more, sometimes it was horror, but that changed after a few years, they got enough horror in their lives. 

No one bothered them when they sat, and did what they did. No one wanted to; it made them happy, it gave them a peace that could come from nowhere else but the worlds they shared together.

At first, it had been weird, but it was quickly adjusted to, as it just seemed to matter to them so much.

It did not matter when or where, but mostly they preferred at night, sitting in the living room or the grass out front. It was always interesting to watch them, one silent and listening as if what the other was saying was the most important thing the world.

Sometimes they had drinks; hot chocolate, iced tea, coffee and a few times a bit of a drink; hard lemonade or something similar, nothing strong but something to give them a bit of warmth. Soon a pattern emerged, one would bring the book the other the beverage, never any complaining…always knowing what they both wanted.

As they got older, and the habit stretched on for years, it seemed to be one of the only things that made them smile.

She sat on the grass, and he stopped and watched her for a moment before joining her. Watching the sun for a moment longer, she turned and looked at him, the light casting half her face in a tanned glow, her hair streaked with shining gold.

Without a word, she handed him a large cup of tea, sweetened just the way he liked it, in one of his favourite cups decorated with images and titles from noir detective comics. They bother loved the books, and as cheesy as the mugs were, the others had given them each a set that was much loved an a little dishwasher worn.

"Pretty out tonight," He mumbled, looked at the setting sun that streaked the sky with an array of deep purples, delicate pinks and flaming oranges. Her eyes followed his gaze, her face absorbing the last ray of sun. The light sent her eyes sparkling as she watched the clouds, painted with unearthly colour.

"Yeah…it's nice…" It had been one of those days that made some people give up. Both were so glad for right now, the calm and serenity. A sigh issued from her lips as she reclined onto the grass, her arms cushioning her head as she continued to watch the everyday miracle.

The grass had the sweet scent of being fresh mown, it was soft to lie back on, watching something that too many took for granted. When the sky had made the stretch to a twilight tinted with a rich purple, fathomless blue and a periwinkle almost too light to exist did he turn to speak.

Stars dotted the darker parts of the sky, winking and flashing, cold as ice, but still promising hope and wonder for those who looked long enough. Once and a while they both watched the dots, seeing and thinking things involving the stars and all that was under them, their thoughts never the identical, but taking comfort in the fact they were sharing the quiet moments together.

"It's been six years today," He breathed, breaking the silence that had only been punctuated by distant city noises and the chirrups of crickets.

"Six years…since what?" A smile graced her face letting him know that she knew the answer. For a moment, he was lost in the normally rare smile, then the fake and forced one hundred watt toothy smile he wore disappeared replaced by the soft grin he wore around her, his real smile.

"Since you caught me and my _dirty_ little reading habit," A false British accent was stressed on "dirty", he gave a small chuckle and he sat up, opening a book, he had brought with him. As he read, she watched him and the sky, losing herself in the story, letting a part of her free into a world made real by the sound of his voice.

Delicately she sipped her tea, not really tasting it beyond a primary level

This had kept them sane, and in control for the last few years, as the world seemed to get steadily worse. Hours could be spent in a bookstore, picking out novels that they would read to one another, sharing in the escapism. Who wrote the book did not matter, if it was really as good as all the review excerpts on the back claimed never mattered, it took them somewhere new, and far away.

Some weekends they went to the movies, it was always so nice to leave reality behind them, even for a few hours. More and more they tried to catch double features, no matter the movie.

He had found an old theatre that every Thursday and Friday nights played two double features of old action movies and the darker detective movies they both loved so much, all in the best venue; black and white. Occasionally the more abstract films played, in colour but still fun to watch.

When they sat down, with shared popcorn and two bottles of water, they ended up somewhere else, for three or more hours, they got away.

On a few nights after they had begun a weekly ritual of going to the movies, he had started to hold her hand during the feature, causing her to reach over with her other hand to the popcorn. At first it had been a shock but after a while, she could not watch a movie without holding his hand. At home, the others had noticed and commented, but they had remained apathetic about their new habit.

It was their ritual and the others be damned for all they had to say.

Years went by, and more and more did they try to escape, longer books, trilogies and more and more trips to the movies, nor matter what genre, became the norm. Sometimes the others would join them, but they never seemed to understand why it was so important to go.

He had written five more books, each dedicated to her. She had gotten first editions and he had signed them, and now they sat in a glass encased bookshelf, never read…just for her to look at and know they were just for her. She bought the paperback versions and read them. Now those copies were dog-earred and read so much the glue holding the pages was loose, and where her thumbs had held the paper the oil from her hands had worn the pages almost see through thin.

When he wrote, she would sit near him and read by herself, sometimes helping him with a word, but mostly just being there. Occasionally when he hit a block, all it would take would be looking at her, or talking to her to get him writing again. They were perfect together.

The need for reading solitarily had diminished as they had begun to spend more time together. Having someone who could understand had helped give them both an anchor that they needed more that the ability to get away.

They each became the other's reason to wake up and face the hell that had been generously called a world.

---

Her shoes stepped lightly on the neat grass, a few loose blades sticking to her soles. A cup of coffee, a rose and a book were in her arms. Stopping she gazed down at the solid marble stone for a long moment.

The cloudy sky hovered above her, a few leaves dancing past on a warm late spring breeze. With a heavy sigh, she sat down just off to the side of the patch of grass, leaning against the corner of the stone.

Her pale hands placed the cup down beside her, on top the book. Long fingers played with the rose, all the thorn carefully removed.

"I'm sorry, I haven't been coming as much, things have been coming up," Her voice was quiet but still clear. She had not done thing in a long time, preferring just to read and drink the coffee, remember old times. However, this day had made it three years to the day that it had happened.

"Everyone is doing fine, still miss you though. Nothing has really been the same since what happened but there is nothing we can do, we get along, not smiling as much. I still go to the movies, only everyother Friday though, sometimes I don't go for months. I never feel right there, but sometimes they rerun those old ones we watched together and I can't stop crying…the others in the theatre look at me funny but I can't help it…I miss holding your hand and tossing popcorn in your mouth as we walked home. Sounds silly, doesn't it?"

She laughed a bit; smiling at the memories emerged from her mind, playing like film reels. Some faint but others so vivid she could feel them and taste them. The lingering shadow of how happy she had been, flourishing with the memories.

"I guess…I'll get better, maybe after another three years it won't be so hard to talk to you knowing you can never respond," she took a deep shuddering breath, "I know I never told you this, even right after when all I would do would be talk to you, wondering if I was losing my sanity. I still wear the ring, never taken it off once. I look at it sometimes and I can almost feel like I can actually smile again, just knowing that you loved me."

A sigh breathed past her lips, the motion distracting her from the tears welled up in her eyes.

"It's hard, but it is getting easier. It doesn't seem like it should though, losing someone you love should never be easy though."

She took a sip of her luke-warm coffee, and placed the rose at the foot of the stone, right below his picture. One she had selected, it had been taken on a night out, she had just gotten a digital camera and had been testing it out rather clumsily when she had accidentally taken the picture of him while he had one his real smile and looked more at peace than anyone in the world.

It was their favourite; he had called it her best-looking accident.

Unaware she twisted her ring for a moment.

"I love you," She said, a few tears falling onto the leg of her jeans.

A few birds went by, and a family made their way through the gates. All was clam and quiet for a while, and she shivered slightly, thinking of how alone she had been since he had left them all. In the dark recesses of her mind, her envied him for managing to get away, and wished she could go with him.

Without another word, she opened the book and began to read.

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Review please, as the harsh critique this story deserves may do the world a much needed favor and crush the tiny part of my ego that thinks I can write. 


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